by Drew Jordan
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“It’s not important.”
I frowned at the ceiling. “What do you mean? What am I supposed to call you?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Who are you?” I half sat up, regretting my question instantly. What if he said, “Your worst nightmare?” I would have a heart attack. But that was ridiculous. My anxiety was on overdrive because of everything that had happened, and the pain was making me nauseated again.
His fingers were on my waist and I realized what he was doing a second too late. When he undid my snap and slid my zipper down I was stunned into silence.
“I’m the man who saved your life by accident. I didn’t come to this part of Alaska to have a name, so just call me anything.”
He had cut my jeans all the way up both sides so that when he undid the zipper, the front was just a flap that fell down between my thighs, leaving me from the waist down in nothing but my panties and shredded denim. His fingers brushed over the front of my panties as he gripped the remains of my jeans and pulled them away from my body. He tossed them on the floor. Goosebumps raced up my legs and spread out over my body. It seemed desperately important that I know his name.
“Are you hiding?” I asked. “Is that why you won’t tell me your name?”
He paused, knife still in his left hand. His eyes narrowed, but then he gave me a smile, the corner of his mouth turning up and making him look younger, more approachable. “Everyone here is hiding from something. From their past, from people in general, or someone in particular. But I’m not wanted by the FBI, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He flipped the corner of his comforter over my exposed lower body. The initial breeze it created was replaced by the soft warmth of the down. Between that and the socks, I was getting the shivering under control. But now I was fixating on him. “So then just tell me your name.”
The man bent over me, and studied my face. His eyes swept upwards and downwards. “You’re very beautiful,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman.”
The scrutiny made me uncomfortable, aware of how isolated I was, how utterly alone I was with this man. His words sounded a little creepy, yet he didn’t look dangerous. He was intense, with a presence that filled the room, his movements sure. But he didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me in any way. Though maybe that’s just what I wanted to tell myself. What I had to tell myself.
“I can’t even see you,” I said. “You’re bundled up. Like a mountain man.”
“I guess I am a mountain man.” Then he seemed to snap out of his musings and he went over to the dresser again. He came back with a flannel shirt and sweat pants. For me, I had to assume.
Despite the pain in my arm and the awkward binding, I probably could have removed my sweater and put on the warm and clean flannel. But for some reason I just lay there, on my back, and let him skim my sweater up over my breasts and carefully remove my arms from the sleeves. His hands were rough, callused, a workingman’s hands, yet he was gentle. He’d put his knife between his teeth, and I focused on the shine of the blade, the sharp gleaming edge that had torn through thick denim like it was butter. My eyelids felt heavy, like I was being dragged under into anesthetic pre-surgery. A drugged sensation.
The man rolled me slightly onto my side and popped my sweater off over my head. Then I felt his fingers on my back, fumbling with the clasp of my bra. “What are you doing?” I asked, trying to shift away.
“There’s blood on you,” he said. “But I can leave it if you prefer. Do you want me to leave it?”
It sounded so ridiculous when he said it like that. A glance down showed that blood had soaked through my sweater and was smeared on my stomach. My previously ivory colored bra was stained a rust color in two spots. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it did make my stomach flip because it reminded me of that dripping sound on the plane and the puddle that had been reaching for me on the floor. The man had a voice that made me feel deferential. Or maybe it was that he knew what he was doing, and I didn’t. Either way, it felt childish and unnecessary to insist he leave my bra on. He wasn’t hitting on me. He had saved my life. My modesty seemed conceited and insulting to him. Seduction wouldn’t be on his mind. Helping me was.
“No. It’s okay. Take it off.” Then I added, “Thank you.”
He popped my bra open and eased the straps down over my arms, taking care with the bandage. When I was bare-chested, nipples taut from the air and my still-chilled body, I felt the ache for a man out of instinct. For him to turn and cover my breast with his mouth and lave at my nipple. My sexual experience of late had been non-existent. Life had been too complicated for relationships and I’d never been one for going online or to a club in search of a hookup. But it was a ludicrous time to be aroused. I told myself it was because I had almost died. Because here I was alive, and his touch was kind, his aura very masculine. Besides, he was undressing me and by association that meant sex.
I hadn’t been touched a lot. Not really. So my body was as confused as my thoughts. He didn’t have the touch of a nurse. It was that of a man.
But the man didn’t bend over and flick his hot tongue over my tight nipple. But he did let his eyes drift casually over my nudity. There was no reaction and I found myself disappointed, stupidly so. I wanted the comfort of a lover, not clinical efficiency. He got me into the flannel shirt the way you would with a baby, and buttoned me up.
“Sit up,” he urged, “and get under the covers. I’m going to get some warm water for your fingers to unthaw them.”
He pulled my good arm, and I sat up, the room spinning slightly. Then I did what he said, moving backwards until I reached the headboard, sliding beneath the comforter after he pulled it back for me. It felt good to be in the flannel, and under the covers. I didn’t lie back down though, choosing instead to prop myself up with pillows, my fingers trembling and burning painfully. I’d never been so aware of all the pieces of my body. From my throbbing ankle, to my icy fingers and my stinging arm, the pain rolled in waves, sometimes crashing into each other. My nipples brushed against the flannel. I never went without a bra. It felt too decadent, too sexual. But now it felt freeing. I had the strangest feeling of comfort, my eyelids hooded, because I needed it and he was providing it, even if his manner was silent, efficient.
The man- he of no name- brought a bowl over to the nightstand and he took both my arms out from under the blanket and submerged them in the water. I winced. “That’s too hot. It feels like it’s burning.”
“It will feel better in a few minutes. It’s not hot water, it’s just room temperature.”
He walked away and finally started to peel off his own layers. First he took off his hat, exposing light brown and unruly hair, and hung it from a clothesline that ran from one corner to the other of the cabin. There were other random pieces of clothing on it already. He unzipped his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. Then he sat down at the chair by the small table and unlaced his boots. He dropped them in front of the wood stove, which was burning. I could hear the crackling on the fire inside its belly.
I wondered how far from his cabin the plane had crashed. How long had he carried me? He must have heard the crash and gone to investigate. “Did you see the plane crash?” I asked, swallowing hard. I felt thirsty, my throat tight, and I briefly closed my eyes, not wanting to remember the way the dead men had looked.
“I saw it and heard it. We don’t get a lot of plane traffic here. He was way off course.”
“Oh. I don’t know. We were going to Fort Yukon.”
He had no comment. He just peeled off his sweatshirt and hung it on the line. Then he stripped off his Henley shirt and undershirt too. I could see the white fabric was damp with sweat. From carrying my weight. His chest was a powerful display of muscles. He had no tattoos, only a scar on his upper chest that was at least four inches in length. His skin was a golden tone- not from the sun, but just his natural color. His jeans hung lo
w on his hips and I was staring. I couldn’t help myself. I’d never seen a man honed with muscles from hard work. The beard scruff wasn’t unusual. I was from Seattle, where lumbersexual really was a thing. Flannel had been a fashion statement since grunge and Nirvana, when I was still a baby. But this was different. This was flannel worn for its original purpose and a body carved from manual labor.
He was a woodsman. An Alaskan bush person. A man who survived because of his own strength and skill.
I was grateful that he’d found me, saved me. “What’s your name?” I asked again. “Please tell me so I can properly thank you.”
He finished hanging his shirts on the line then turned slowly to me. His expression evaporated the sense of safety I felt. “Don’t ask me that again. It’s not a fucking game or a coffee date.”
It was so rude and unexpected I jerked, instinctively wincing.
It sounded harsher than maybe he meant it. Or maybe he did mean to be an asshole. Either way, it was like a slap in the face. I pulled my fingers out of the bowl and raised them to my eyes, tears threatening to spill that I didn’t want him to see. I was just trying to be polite. Why was I being polite when he was being weird and I was the one who had almost died? Well, fuck him. I didn’t need to make small talk, he was totally right about that.
I heard him swear. Something clanked when it fell but I refused to open my eyes. My wet hands cooled my cheeks, which felt wind-burned and chapped. Then the bed creaked as he sat down on it next to me.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
The unexpected touch of his hand on mine forced me to jerk my eyes open. “What are you doing? Just leave me alone. Please.”
“Let me see your face.”
“No.”
“I just need to see your face,” he coaxed, his voice low, soothing.
Without meaning to, I dropped my hands down. How did he do that? Just a few commanding words and I listened. It was something about his confidence in my compliance and the seductive timber of his voice. Or maybe it was just my senses were numb, my reserve down from my trauma.
He was staring at me intently, his blue eyes cool. Was there remorse there? Was there fire, passion? Lust, curiosity? I didn’t see anything. Or I couldn’t interpret it. It was like he had mastered the art of shielding his thoughts from others, which seemed so unnecessary here. Alone.
Why did he hide?
“I don’t spend much time with people anymore. My social skills are rusty. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I wet my dry lips with my tongue.
His eyes dropped, following the movement. I hadn’t meant to attract his attention. Yet when he noticed, I felt a shiver of pleasure that I had no business feeling. “It’s okay. Can I have some water?”
“Of course you can.” His thumb reached out and wiped dampness from my skin. “Are you hungry? You should eat before I give you some pain medication.”
“My stomach is upset.”
“I’ll make you soup.”
“Okay.” The pain in my ankle was growing. I wanted to close my eyes again, but when I did, the image of those men danced in front of my eyes like macabre marionettes. I popped them back open. He was still looking at me. “John?” I asked, because I needed to call him something, and he looked like a John.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yes?”
“I almost died.” It was a totally obvious statement. What, like he didn’t know that? But I just wanted some reassurance that I was alive or something. I wanted comfort.
“But you didn’t.” John, I was determined to think of him as John, gripped my chin gently. “And now you’re here. With me. Safe.”
I nodded, shivering. I was safe. With him.
His grip tightened, pinching my skin. “Just do what I say. Always. And everything will be fine.”
CHAPTER TWO
Fear returned, different from when I was on the plane. That had been the terror of the plane free-falling and knowing I was about to die. It was a quick fear, a brief spike that had quickly morphed into the pain and the unknown and the shock of survival. This was different, a slow rising fear, like warm yeast, growing and bubbling. The fear that came from the realization that you were in danger. Not the kind where you have no time to process before it’s already over, but where the prickles on your skin rise and your breath goes shallow and you try to tell yourself you are overreacting.
But there is still the undeniable sensation that someone wants to harm you. The stranger wanted to hurt me.
“What do you mean?” I whispered, my heart rate increasing so rapidly I could have sworn I heard it beating in my ears. In the room. Everything in me was screaming to jerk my chin out of his hold, but I was afraid to anger him. It took all the control I had to force myself to not break my return stare.
“It’s dangerous here. The cold, the animals, the guns. You need to listen to me or you might get hurt.” He let my chin go. “And we don’t want that.” John pushed back off the bed and stood up.
My breath released in a huge sigh. My armpits were clammy. His back was as muscular as his chest, but now I saw that not as sensual, but as a threat. He was strong. But maybe he really just had meant it as a warning on the dangers of Alaska. It was rough terrain and I knew very little about it.
But he definitely wasn’t a John. Johns were loyal, reliable, easy-going. They made you laugh, didn’t make you anxious. The stranger was none of those things.
If my leg wasn’t hurting so badly, I would have plucked the sweat pants off the bottom of the bed and wiggled into them. I wanted more of a barrier between us. “What kind of animals are there?” I had no idea why I focused on that, which was most likely the smallest danger to me.
“Bears. Caribou.”
Those were definitely big creatures but I wasn’t planning on going for a stroll in the woods. I pursed my lips. As he opened a cupboard and got out something, I looked around the small cabin. It was rustic, but warm, both in temperature and in color from all the natural exposed wood. It was cluttered, though tidy, the kitchen area just one bank of cabinets with exposed shelving above. There was a pantry cupboard, and by the door, a gun rack. One, two, three, four, five, I counted six different shotguns. I didn’t know what differentiated one from the other. I was an assistant manager at a sustainable clothing store in Seattle with a sewing blog on the side. I didn’t know anything about guns or knives or bears.
“You have sled dogs?” I asked, still hearing the occasional bark or complaining whine outside.
The can he’d been holding hit the countertop. Hard. It made me wince. I decided I needed to shut the fuck up. I was clearly irritating him. But the chatter was both from anxiety and from needing to have something, anything to grasp onto. I needed to know where I was, what to expect. Both what was outside and what was in here.
“Yes. I have dogs.” He kept his back to me.
That bare back. Didn’t he need a shirt? Maybe he didn’t get cold like I did. My thirst was distracting me. My mouth felt like I’d swallowed sawdust. I eyed the bowl he’d set on the nightstand for my fingers. At home, I would have thought it disgusting to even consider drinking water my hands had been soaking in. It would be like drinking from the manicure bowl at the salon. But I was too thirsty to care. I carefully lifted the bowl with trembling hands and raised it to my lips.
I was taking a small sip when he turned and caught me. His eyebrows shot up. “You don’t have to drink that. I’m getting you water.”
My cheeks heated. I shrugged. “I’m causing you enough trouble.”
“It’s not any trouble. Honestly.” He took down a cup and filled it from a water cooler. He brought it over to me.
I’d guiltily set the bowl down and I reached for the cup he was holding, but he raised it right to my lips and tipped it. The cool refreshing liquid filled my mouth. I swallowed and pulled away. Some dribbled onto my bottom lip and chin. “Thank you.”
His thumb wiped the spill up from the base of my chin up to my lip and sli
pping just slightly into my mouth. It was unexpected, that warm, rough pad of skin inside my lip and I sucked in a breath. His smile was seductive, whether he intended it to be or not.
“There. Good to the last drop.”
Maybe he was a JT. Joseph Thomas. Or Justin Timberlake. That made me smile. Why had that popped into my head?
“See? There’s a smile.” JT tucked my hair behind my ear. “Good to know you’ve got teeth.”
I gave a rusty laugh. But right then I shifted on his bed and my ankle protested. A cry flew out of my mouth before I could stop it.
The smile fell off his face. “I’ll go get you that soup so you can take the painkiller. Don’t worry, it’s not broken.”
“Are you sure?” It felt pretty damn broken to me.
“You’d be in more pain.”
Dear God, what would more pain feel like? “What happened to my arm?” I lifted it slightly off the bed, noting that I was already bleeding through the makeshift bandage he’d bound me with.
“Something cut it.”
That was more than a little obvious, but I figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to get snarky about it. I just sipped more water from the glass he’d set on the nightstand and watched him move around his small kitchen. Looking around, I wondered where the bathroom was. I needed to go, the pressure building rapidly with each passing minute. I decided to eat the soup first though in order not to anger him.
Though it occurred to me I shouldn’t have to worry that he’d get mad at me for asking a simple question, I suspected he would. If you were used to living alone and then some woman who didn’t know jack shit crashed your party you might find her incessant questions annoying. I got that. I didn’t like it. But I got it. Sean- maybe he was a Sean?- had said his social skills were rusty. I must sound like nails on a chalkboard to him and he had to be tired from hauling my unconscious body. Irritated. On edge.